


drift into the deep

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: tumblr fics & ficlets, part ii. [56]
Category: Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Rain, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 15:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15889236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Andrew’s heart is in his throat. He can’t breathe, can’t swallow, can’t speak.So when Steven reaches the bottom step and asks, “Can I?” while still moving towards Andrew, all Andrew can do is nod. Barely a second later, Steven crashes into his front hard enough to knock him back a step and kisses him.Somehow, the hope in Andrew’s chest is simultaneously replaced with crackling fireworks and a wave of relief.





	drift into the deep

**Author's Note:**

> I received this lovely anonymous prompt on tumblr: _I was listening to Ruelle's new EP and all I could think about it was Standrew first kiss while["Emerge Pt. II"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AoCcT02rqQg) plays Could you write something inspired by this song, pleeeease_. after consulting with the lovely [missyousofaar](http://missyousofaar.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, we both realized the song made us think of a) romcoms/movies and b) kissing in the rain, so now, here's this (although there's less rain kissing in the rain than I anticipated)!
> 
> unbeta'ed by anyone but me, so all mistakes and fuck-ups are mine.

It’s been a strange night.

There hasn’t been anything in particular that has made the night stranger than usual, hasn’t been a specific event that Andrew could point to as the source of the tension churning in his stomach like a supercell. It’s just been a night out with Steven, a night like any of the hundred times they’ve hung out after work and grabbed something to eat. It’s not like they even tried a new place; they went to an old favorite, an Italian place that Adam recommended a few months back, followed by Fosters Freeze for dessert. It’s a routine they’ve followed before, one Andrew is so familiar with that he’s surprised that, when he glances down at the sidewalk, he can't see his footprints there, embedded in the cement. 

And yet, while their routine hasn’t differed, _something_ has.

At first, Andrew thinks that maybe the reason he feels _off_ is because of the impending storm, because of the purple thunderclouds piling high above the glimmering ocean. He thinks that it’s the static building in the air that makes every touch between them, every brush of Steven’s fingertips against his own as they share their drinks back and forth, every nudge of his shoulder against Andrew’s as they walk, every bump of their knees as they sit on a concrete ledge outside of Fosters, feel like a flame striking him. Each of those touches linger for long minutes afterwards, like they’re lodged underneath his skin, simmering like a coal glowing red in the bottom of a campfire. 

But even after the storm hits in earnest, after the sky splits open and unleashes an utter downpour, Andrew’s skin doesn’t stop burning.

And that’s enough to make his mind turn to other possibilities, possibilities that he sometimes turns over late at night, when he’s too wound up to sleep, possibilities that he spends much of his waking time trying _not_ to think about, because they distract him from work and fill him with a giddy, suffocating kind of hope.

The storm breaks while they’re still six blocks from Steven’s apartment. Neither of them have umbrellas, and even though it takes no longer than thirty seconds for them to find an alcove to shelter in, a recessed entryway of a bookstore that’s closed for the night, that’s enough time for them to get absolutely soaked. Andrew’s jeans are plastered to his legs, and he can feel water squelching in his shoes whenever he moves his feet. Droplets of rain course down the back of his neck and under his collar, and when he shoves his hair away from his forehead, his palms come back slick with more water.

If he was alone, he would probably allow himself a moment of self-pity, a moment to complain about the sudden turn of events, before he settled in to wait out the storm. As is, because Steven is standing opposite him, only a few feet away, smiling as he pushes his own floppy hair away from his face, Andrew doesn’t make it to that stage.

“We really should have brought umbrellas,” Steven says with a laugh, wringing out the sleeve of his jacket. Rivulets of water run down his long fingers and plummet to the ground.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring a raincoat,” Andrew replies. “Or is your jacket collection too cool for something that practical?”

“I know that’s just jealousy talking, Andrew. If you want me to take you shopping for some cool stuff of your own, you just have to ask.”

Andrew rolls his eyes. “Alright. Sure.”

Steven’s grin grows brighter. After squeezing out his other sleeve, he settles back against the wall and tilts his head to the side, face pointed towards the street. The rain is still coming down in buckets, loudly drumming against the sidewalk and street, interrupted only by a taxi creeping by, water sloshing underneath its wheels. There’s something almost peaceful about the way the world seems to have momentarily paused aside from the rain, something that makes the fact that Andrew is soaked to the bone easier to deal with. If he were alone, he’s sure that, after the self-pity stage, he’d actually be able to really enjoy the scene.

As is, even though they aren’t touching anymore, even though Steven is separated from him by a few feet, Andrew still feels like he’s on fire. That damn feeling of hope, the one he’s tried valiantly to bury for years, is filling every hollow point of his chest, wrapping its spindly fingers around his heart and constricting. Every place that Steven has touched him today, his knees and fingertips and wrists, feel like they’re all burning at once; the rain hasn’t done anything to extinguish the blaze. The silence between them feels like something significant, like the eye of the storm or the moment in a horror film where the music goes silent in preparation for the jump scare. It feels like this moment has been building up not just for the last few hours, but the last few _years_. 

It feels like Andrew needs to do something about it.

He takes a single step, swallows heavily in preparation to say Steven’s name, but before it can slip from his lips, Steven pushes away from the wall and wipes his brick-dust covered palms on the wet black denim clinging to his narrow thighs.

“Looks like it’s starting to ease up,” he says quietly, clearing his throat. Sure enough, he’s right - the downpour has lessened to a drizzle, and based on the sliver of bright blue Andrew can see at the edge of the sky, even that will be over soon.

While he is glad that the storm is over, the hope in his chest deflates like the last balloon at a child’s birthday party. He’s never been much of a believer in fate, in destiny or preordained choices, but suddenly, it feels like he missed an opportunity, one that he might not have again for years, if ever.

“Yeah,” he answers, trying to keep his disappointment with himself out of his voice. “Looks like it.” He can’t help but take a few moments to glance back at Steven. His jeans are stuck to his legs from hip to ankle, he’s pushed his damp hair into a series of unruly spikes, and there’s still rain clinging to the sides of his neck and the hollow of his throat. While Andrew has no doubt that he looks like a drowned rat, Steven looks like something out of a Renaissance painting, almost ludicrously beautiful.

For a moment, he’s almost glad that he didn’t make his move, because he suddenly doesn’t feel like he’s good enough to even _look_ at Steven, let alone touch or kiss him.

“Wanna head back?” he asks, returning his gaze to the sky as he asks, where the late afternoon sun is about to burst free from behind a lingering gray cloud. Steven’s footsteps are muted against the wet concrete as he steps out into the last of the drizzle and glances back over his shoulder at Andrew.

“Sure. Little bit more rain won’t kill us.”

As they walk back, Andrew tries to keep a respectable distance between them, tries to prevent new touches from burning his skin, but it doesn’t work. Part of the problem is that Steven seems to gravitate to him; every time Andrew takes a step away, Steven takes one closer. The other part of the problem is that, despite what Andrew’s brain tells him is the smart thing to do, his body disobeys, instinctively goes searching for those touches, presses in closer so that the entire length of his arm is brushing against Steven’s.

He just can’t bring himself to stop.

The blocks rapidly disappear underneath their feet and, in what feels like the mere blink of an eye, they’ve made it to the steps leading up to Steven’s apartment building, the concrete and railing slick with the recently departed rain. They stop at the base of the stairs, so close that when Steven swings his hand slightly, his fingertips brush against the inside of Andrew’s wrist.

It’s a gentle touch, but it feels like a live wire pressing into Andrew’s damp skin. 

“Tonight was really nice,” Steven says quietly. It’s not a sentence that should throw Andrew off, but it’s _definitely_ not part of their normal routine. Normally, they part with a last comment about the food or a simple _see you tomorrow_. 

This is new. This is _strange._

“Yeah,” Andrew answers once he’s gotten his wits about him again. “I had a great time.” Absently, he realizes that he can sense Steven’s fingers hovering near the inside of his wrist, and part of him wants to close that space, initiate something, just to see where it goes.

Before he can commit to a course of action, Steven smiles at him and steps away.

“See you in the morning,” he says over his shoulder as he starts up the stairs. Andrew manages to say something back, some kind of acknowledgment, but the specifics of what actually leaves his mouth remains a mystery, mainly because he’s too busy watching Steven head up the stairs. If he was to try and justify it to someone, he would say that it’s because the stairs are steep and wet, that he’s just making sure Steven gets in okay.

But that would just be an excuse.

The truth is that he just can’t bring himself to move yet.

Steven stops by the entrance and pulls his keys out - Andrew can see them glimmering in his hand, catching the light from the bulb installed in the alcove surrounding the door. Andrew tells himself that he’ll start walking once those keys actually go in the lock, once Steven actually steps inside. He’ll go down to the end of the block, order an Uber (if the rain didn’t destroy his phone), go home, and try to convince himself that nothing about this night was any different from the others that they’ve spent together.

But Steven doesn’t unlock the door.

He remains still for a few moments, back to Andrew, head slightly bowed, the pale nape of his neck exposed. With each consecutive second that he doesn’t move, Andrew feels more rooted to the spot, as if the sidewalk has swallowed his feet whole. 

Eventually, Steven turns back around, shoves his keys back into his pockets, and retraces his journey down the stairs, faster this time, fast enough that Andrew is _actually_ concerned that he might slip and fall. When his hand slides along the railing, water sprays along either edge. Each of his footsteps seems as loud as cannon fire. 

Andrew’s heart is in his throat. He can’t breathe, can’t swallow, can’t speak.

So when Steven reaches the bottom step and asks, “Can I?” while still moving towards Andrew, all Andrew can do is nod.

Barely a second later, Steven crashes into his front hard enough to knock him back a step and kisses him.

Somehow, the hope in Andrew’s chest is simultaneously replaced with crackling fireworks and a wave of relief.

Steven’s palms come up to curl around his cheeks, and his long fingers push up into Andrew’s wet hair, shaping it in a way that he’s sure he’ll laugh at later, when he looks in the mirror. For the time being, instead of thinking about that, he drops his hands to Steven’s waist, fists his fingers into the sodden fabric of his jacket, and returns the kiss with everything he has, tilts his head to the side and kisses Steven back until there’s spots flashing behind his closed eyelids. Steven’s mouth tastes like rainwater and a hint of vanilla from dessert, and while Andrew tries to wait an appropriate amount of time, he finds himself chasing after the taste sooner than later, finds himself running his tongue along the soft curve of Steven’s bottom lip before he slips it into Steven’s mouth. Steven whimpers and presses up against him so firmly that Andrew really wishes he had something at his back, a wall or maybe the side of a car, something to keep him standing upright.

Steven backs away first, flushed pink and panting. When his ink-black eyelashes flutter open, he looks almost awestruck, even a bit confused, the way he gets sometimes when he’s tried something expensive and bizarre and he’s trying to figure out how to accurately describe it for the camera.

“I shouldn’t have waited so long to do that,” he says, fingers still tight in Andrew’s hair. Andrew slides his hands under Steven’s jacket, so that his hands are settled on where the slightly less sodden fabric of Steven’s shirt is clinging to the slight curve of his waist.

“Me neither,” he replies before he leans back in for another kiss, one that’s slower and less frantic, more controlled and no less amazing than the first had been.

By the time Steven makes it back up the stairs, Andrew’s lost count of how many times they fell back together, how many times they murmured that they had to stop, that they had to get going. Once again, he lingers at the bottom of the stairs while Steven heads inside, and only once Steven is out of view does he start moving. His damp clothes are uncomfortably stuck to his limbs, but he barely notices. He’s more distracted on how his mouth is slightly sore from pressing against Steven’s, how his bottom lip is aching from Steven’s teeth tugging on it a little too hard.

As he rounds the corner and pulls his phone out to get an Uber, a grin spreads across his face.

It really _has_ been a strange night but it’s also, safe to say, been one of the best he’s experienced in a long, long time. 

He can’t wait to see what the morning brings.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
